One of the things I love about Christmas are Christmas movies. I know we all have our favorites, and some are related to our generation. My two favorites are The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (the original, not the Jim Carey one) and Home Alone. What is fun about Christmas movies is we watch them over and over again because we like something about their message. The movies teach us something.

This year, I introduced my younger daughter to The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. She was fascinated by the movie, asking all sorts of questions – why they play bad music when the Grinch is around, why he stole all their presents, and why he hits his dog. But the question she asks most frequently has been about the Grinch’s heart. For those of you not familiar with the story, the Grinch tries to ruin Christmas for Whoville by stealing all their presents, decorations, and feast items. But when Whoville does not cry and wail about all that is lost, and instead returns to the town center to sing as a community, without their “stuff,” the Grinch’s heart is strangely warmed, growing three times the size the heart was. My daughter keeps asking me about the Grinch’s growing heart, and her questions have allowed us to talk about what Christmas is really about, and why someone’s heart might grow.

Every year we watch our favorite Christmas movies and cartoons because we enjoy revisiting the lessons the movies teach us. But what is interesting about those movies is, over time, the lesson the movie teaches us takes on new meaning. We meet new Grinches over our lifetime – or sometimes we become them! We get to know presumably creepy or scary neighbors who we eventually learn are beautiful human beings. We experience Christmases where everything goes wrong, but we find joy in the unexpected. We know part of what the story is teaching us, but as we age and mature, the movies speak to us in new and fresh ways.

We tell the story of Jesus’ birth every single Christmas for a similar reason. We tell the same story every year because God did this amazing thing. God is all powerful, and conceivably could do anything God wants – and has: from kicking Adam and Eve out of the garden, to flooding the earth, to cursing generations for one person’s sins. God can rule and govern and do anything God wants, and yet the one thing God does is become human. God becoming incarnate is such an amazing thing that when we say the Creed, many people bow or genuflect during the part of the Creed that talks about God becoming incarnate from the Virgin Mary, being made man. Becoming human is God’s ultimate expression of God’s lovingkindness, that hesed, we have been talking a lot about lately. Becoming incarnate is the way God shows God’s love for us.

I am a part of group that is creating a kindness initiative in 2019 in the Greater Williamsburg area. We will be encouraging the faith community, business community, local schools, and nonprofits to engage in acts of kindness, with the ultimate goal of making Greater Williamsburg the next community of kindness. I like the initiative because I know doing acts of kindness helps me get a small glimpse into God’s lovingkindness; doing acts of kindness helps me honor God, and embody God to others. When we talk about shining Christ’s light in the world, or being Jesus to others, we are often talking about doing acts of kindness. The ultimate form of flattery or honoring someone else is when we do acts of kindness. When we, as persons of faith, do acts of kindness, we honor God by imitating God’s lovingkindness. Any of you who has a sibling knows that siblings often copy what we do. How many times have you heard the complaint, “He’s copying me!” or “She’s keeps stealing my clothes.”? The reasons our siblings do this, besides to annoy us, is because they want to be like us – they want to honor us by imitating us – just like we imitate God. Of course, they would never admit that reality to your face, but the truth is, imitation is the best form of flattery.

Tonight, we tell the story of Mary and Joseph, of innkeepers and registrations, of shepherds and angels because we love the story. The story makes us feel safe, loved, and reassured. And sometimes we really need opportunities to feel good about life, ourselves, and our God. But we also tell the story because the story is formative – the story shapes who we are and how we behave. Over the years, different parts of the story touch us, and as we grow and change, the lesson grows and changes. So we listen to the story to remember who we have been and who we are. But we also listen to this familiar story to remind us of what we will do tomorrow. This story invites us to share God’s lovingkindness like the shepherds. This story invites us to ponder God’s amazing love like Mary. This story invites us to sing loudly like the angels, shouting our love for God and the world like an army of kindness. I cannot wait to learn what hearing the story this year leads you to do in the days, weeks, and months to come! May this favored story not just be a story of comfort, but also a story of action. Amen.

On my first day of General Convention, I had to start as a “visitor” until I could get my alternate name badge. That meant I had some spare time to explore the exhibits in the Exhibit Hall. I decided to grab lunch there, and after I made my purchase, I realized I didn’t know anyone in the eating area, and many of the tables were full of deputations or groups of friends. There was a table with just one petite older woman of color. I figured General Convention was partly about meeting the wider church, so I asked to join her.

We began the normal chitchat of the day – the weather, the food, etc. I asked her where she was from and she said, “Arizona now, but I’m from Kenya.” Well, you can imagine my excitement – one of my best friends from seminary is a female priest from Kenya. We launched into a conversation about what brought her to the States, and before I knew it, we were deep in a conversation about the husband who left her for another woman, the kids he left her to manage, the impact of the divorce on her family, the hurtful things a priest said to her about the divorce, the way she has experienced racism – not just as a person of color, but as a woman from Africa.

After we grieved the hard stuff, and my apology about the sins of the church, she began to tell me about the good stuff: the grandchildren she moved to Arizona to enjoy; the women she works with back in various countries in Africa to produce clothing that will feed their families; the school she is trying to help some of the women establish in their hometown. She was at Convention to display and sell their wares. She jokingly told me, “Yeah, I’m a little concerned. The women gave me several items that are going to be way too small for anyone here to wear.” I knew God had brought us together for a reason! “Mary,” I exclaimed, “I guess that means I’m going to have to buy one of those smalls!”

Later that week, I dropped by new friend’s booth. We embraced like old friends. I could see the wrinkles of hurt and toil on her face more distinctly this time, but I could also see the twinkle of new relationship in her eyes. I came away with a cute dress, but more importantly, I came away with a sense of kinship, of having connected with another human about the journey of life, and where God can work through us to do good. When we talk about evangelism in the church, I always try to remind Hickory Neck that evangelism is about hearing people’s stories and naming God in them. It is not easy work. It will involve sitting down at tables with strangers and maybe even starting by talking about the weather. But if you hang in there, you might just hear the story of how God is working through us all – and even find a new sister or brother in Christ along the way.

I once had a parishioner who was both the best and the worst storyteller. He was the best because his stories were always fascinating, funny, and fantastic. Not only did he have an intriguing life, he also just had a real gift for telling stories in ways that brought them to life in your mind’s eye. But he was also not the best storyteller because he was easily distracted. He would be in the middle of a story and then veer off course, “Which reminds me of the time…” he would say, and off he would go. Sometimes he would go back to the other story, but you had to really pay attention to remind him of where he had started. Sometimes the dropped ending on a story would come back to me days later and I would wonder, “I wonder what happened after he dropped that note to his secret love…”

Mark’s storytelling today is a bit like that parishioner’s way of telling stories. After the fantastic stories of the calming of the sea, and the healing of a demon-possessed man, Mark tells us of Jesus’ next dramatic moment. Jairus approaches Jesus and falls at Jesus’ feet, begging him to heal his dying twelve-year old daughter. This whole event is a big deal because if you remember, many of the other synagogue leaders were suspicious of Jesus, and even plotting against him. For a synagogue leader to approach Jesus for help is a huge break in rank. Jesus goes with Jairus without comment, but before we can find out what happens, Mark basically says, “Speaking of which, there was this woman who approached Jesus without Jesus knowing. You won’t believe what happened…” And off Mark goes telling another fantastic story.

This time, we learn of a woman who is a total outcast. She has been hemorrhaging for twelve years, she is destitute because she has spent all her money on doctors – to no avail, and let’s not forget she is a woman. We can almost imagine the clandestine approach of this triple outcast weaving her way into the crowd just to touch Jesus’ garment. To her credit, the simple touch works! Now, the story really could end there, but Mark tells us something even more fascinating – Jesus stops dead in his tracks, demanding to know who touched him. In a crowd of thousands, he wants to know which person touched him?!? The woman comes forward for what should be a great castigation and humiliation. Instead, her honesty and vulnerability open Jesus up to giving even more blessing. Not only has her faith in him made her well, he offers her the peace, health, and wholeness that will allow her full integration back into society – a double gift!

Now the good news is that Mark is not as bad of a storyteller as my former parishioner. Mark jumps back to Jairus’ story – but the news is bad. The daughter has died! Everyone thinks the cause is lost, but Jesus encourages Jairus to believe. So off they go, but this time with only Peter, James, and John. The gathered crowd mocks Jesus’ assertion that the girl is just sleeping. But when the six of them go in, Jesus quite simply takes her by the hand, calls the girl to get up, and then asks them to give her some food – dying can really take a toll after all!

You might be shaking your head at Mark at this point, wondering if we can’t just focus on one of these stories – truly either is powerful enough on its own. But Mark is not really like my former parishioner – he does not simply tell stories because he is good at telling stories, or because he likes to entertain guests. In fact, Mark does this more than once in his gospel. The biblical critics call this practice “intercalation,” but many people just call this a Markan sandwich.[i] As N.T. Wright explains, by sandwiching the stories together, “The flavour of the outer story adds zest to the inner one; the taste of the inner one is meant in turn to permeate the outer one.”[ii]

So what do we learn about Jesus through Mark’s sandwiching these stories together? Well, let’s start with how they are different. Jairus is an insider – as a male synagogue leader, he is well-known and respected in the community, presumably with some power and influence.[iii] Meanwhile, the bleeding woman is an outsider – a female, impure, impoverished outcast.[iv] Jairus publicly invites Jesus to touch his dying daughter; the woman secretly touches Jesus’ cloak herself. Jairus’ daughter is just a girl, but the woman has lived a longer life. More interesting though is how the two stories are alike. Both Jairus and the woman kneel before Jesus. “Both victims of illness are female and ritually unclean, one as a result of death and one as a result of hemorrhage; both represent the significance of the number twelve in Jewish tradition (the twelve years of hemorrhage and the twelve-year old girl); and both are regarded as ‘daughters’ (the little girl being Jairus’s daughter and the woman who is addressed by Jesus as ‘Daughter’). An act of touch restores both women to new life even as those surrounding them lack understanding.”[v]

Mark uses these two stories together because we need their differences and similarities to teach us something about Jesus and about ourselves. We learn from Mark’s sandwich that Jesus is present with both the powerful and the powerless alike. Both requests, despite the baggage both a synagogue leader and an impure woman bring, are honored by Jesus. What we note though is Jesus tends the woman first. Now some scholars might argue the pause in the story, and the death of the girl before Jesus gets there, are meant to build suspense.[vi] But equally important is that Jesus stops for the person without power first[vii] – even taking precious time to not just heal her but demand to be in conversation and relationship with her. He could have kept walking, knowing that his power had flowed out but staying the course with the good deed he was about to perform. But instead, he stops everything, everyone, and demands a connection – one that leads not just to healing but total restoration within the community – shalom.[viii] Jesus also shows us about the wideness of family. A few weeks ago, we read the gospel lesson where Jesus questioned the crowd about who his mother and brothers and sister were. Today he keeps expanding the circle. The powerful and persecuting are his family; the most ostracized outcasts are his family; even the vulnerable children are his family. Finally, Jesus teaches us that healing or the good works we do are meant to be within the context of relationship. That Jesus tends the bleeding woman and the young girl is much less important than how he tends the two females. Jesus’ help is not about an impersonal exchange – a few coins dropped in a hat or a check written to a charity – though those are necessary too. Equally important to dropping a coin in a hat might be stopping to talk to the person asking for a handout. In addition to contributing to a favorite charity, knowing the stories of specific clients is equally important.

What is hidden in these two tales about Jesus is the “flash of precious intimacy between two human beings who are socially very distant from each other.” As one scholar explains, what Jesus brings alive for us today is “Our relationships – in the church, in friendships, and in marriage – are not just something extra added on to life for distraction and entertainment, as if we would be complete human beings in individual isolation. Relationship, ‘touch,’ if you will, makes us human and whole. As the contemporary Scottish philosopher John Macmurray once phrased it, ‘I need “you” in order to be myself.’”[ix] What Jesus’ actions and Mark’s adept way at combining stories do today is invite us to consider not what we do, but how we do what we do. Jesus invites us to slow down – to take those moments when someone’s pain is presented to us, and not just offer help, but stop long enough to make a connection – to develop intimacy with others. “A teacher once remarked, ‘You know…my whole life I have been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I discovered that my interruptions were my work.’”[x] Jesus also invites us to care for everyone – rich, poor, young, and old – but he especially wants us to start with those most in need. Finally, Jesus invites us today to see, really see, where people are, and to be a people of compassion, healing, and love. Before you know it, you may be the one at coffee hour, veering off one story to tell yet another story, all highlighting the wonderful, lifegiving, challenging ways that stepping into relationship with others has changed your walk with Jesus. I can’t wait to try to track your stories! Amen.

Yesterday, I attended the dedication of a Habitat for Humanity house for which our church had been a financial and volunteer sponsor. As I watched the family celebrate, it struck me how everyone has a story. Before becoming a priest, I worked at a Habitat affiliate in Delaware, and I remember that each homeowner’s story varied. Some had grown up in poverty, and were the first to buy homes in their extended families; some had a health crisis that led to financial and housing problems; some were living in substandard conditions, while others had squeezed their entire families into a friend’s living room. I do not know the full story of the Fletcher family, except that the matriarch has been working as a nurse for years, has three children, and could not afford to buy a home without Habitat.

What struck me about the Habitat event is how strong our common humanity is. Get a new Habitat homeowner in the room with a wealthy, privileged person, and I suspect within ten minutes they will be sharing stories of their common humanity. But get either of them outside of that room, and either person could be seen as an enemy: someone who oppresses others and does not share their wealth or someone who does not work hard enough and relies too much on outside assistance. Neither of these characterizations are fair – but we make them all the time. We forget the story of each individual, and instead create categories that we can then use to generalize – to dehumanize.

I do not usually talk about politics on my blog, but our President’s recent characterization of other countries and their citizens, whom I love, has broken my heart. The incident itself was not all that surprising. What put me over the edge was how the comment was so brazenly said and affirmed by others, and how the comment highlighted the ways our country seems to have embraced the practice of dehumanizing others enough that they are able to say things that they would not otherwise say to another human if they were face-to-face.

Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, advocated for a preferential option for the poor. Time and again, Jesus took the stranger, the outcast, the downtrodden, and healed them, helped them, and loved them. In fact, “the other,” is a recurring theme in scripture that invites us to examine our own modern designations of “insiders” and “outsiders.” Our country’s current practice of demonizing and subjugating the “other” is an action in direct conflict with Holy Scripture and the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We are not living into our baptismal covenant promises of respecting the dignity of every human being, and seeking and serving Christ in all persons.

This week, I invite you to examine our current treatment of the “other” – those for whom Jesus had a particular preference and priority. Whether you need to spend some time in prayer, have a conversation with someone unlike you, volunteer some time with a charitable organization, write to your governmental representatives, or donate your money to an agency that can affect change – do something. Do not let your light be hidden under a bushel. And then share your story with me here, or with a friend on the journey. I cannot wait to hear how the Holy Spirit uses you.

Sometimes arriving at the manger on Christmas Eve feels a bit like just barely sliding into home plate. When little ones are around, you have scurried about, making sure their tights and bowties are on, while trying to squeeze in one last family picture while everyone still looks nice. By now, you have probably served or been served a meal, purchased and wrapped gifts, prepped or cooked food for tomorrow, sent out cards, decorated the house, and run countless errands. And none of that includes the four hundred things that will be done in the next twenty-four hours. Arriving here and semi-put together is a minor victory, with the promise of a peaceful, beautiful hour of worship, before preparing for the chaos to resume tomorrow.

The unfortunate thing is that the story of tonight is not all that much less chaotic. Though we sing songs like Silent Night or Away in a Manger, or though we exchange cards with pastoral, peaceful settings, nothing about that night is silent. And I am pretty sure the little Lord Jesus makes lots of cries. The chaos of the holy family is not unlike the chaos in which we sometimes find ourselves. Remembering how scandalous Mary’s pregnancy and relationship with Joseph are, the chaos continues as Emperor Augustus sends out a decree that forces a very pregnant, uncomfortable Mary away from her hometown to the crowded city of Bethlehem. Before they can secure housing, Mary goes into labor. Not only is she dealing with the drama of delivering a child for the first time ever, she is delivering without so much as the comfort of a home. And then, just as they are trying to figure out nursing, and soothing, and the fear and wonder of parenting, along come some rowdy, likely filthy, shepherds, who have also not had a silent night. In fact, they have heard the terrifying chorus of the heavenly host and been told a most preposterous story – so much so, they gather up their livestock and come to see.

With all the chaos of our own lives, and with all the mayhem of that holy night, why do we do it? Why do we come to church at all? Maybe we come to church on this night specifically because on this night, more than perhaps any night ever, we find the wonderful revelation that God can take the messy chaos of life and make our mess holy. You see, as much as we love tonight’s beautiful story, what happens this night is beyond the chaos of registrations, no vacancies, angelic revelations, and messy encounters with strangers. In order to understand the enormity of what is happening tonight, we broaden our scope. Tonight’s event – the nativity of our Lord – is the culmination of a much larger story. The story started when there was no earth or humankind, when God formed the earth from the formless void. When we first sinned against God and were cast out of the garden, to when we kept sinning and God flooded the world, to our deliverance from the hands of pharaoh and our arrival in the promised land, to our sinful desires for a king that led to the eventual confiscation of our land. We are a people who have been oppressed so many times and rescued so many times we can barely count. And in that rollercoaster of a relationship with our God, as we failed time and again, God, who never gives up and never cedes love, does something unheard of: takes on human flesh, comes to us in the form of a vulnerable child, with the plan of redeeming us forever and granting us eternal life.

Maybe we come to church tonight because tonight is about God’s unending, undying, unfailing, uncompromising love for us. Despite centuries of chaos, disobedience, and failures, God shows up tonight in a mighty way. Despite the chaos of the times and of this night, God shows up among the outcast. Despite the chaos of our own times, in our seeming inability to tend to those most outcast, God comes once more to redeem us. We come to church tonight because we long to grasp the enormity of God’s love for us, the extents to which God will go for us, and the hope which only God can give to us.

But the news is even better than that. I do not believe the beauty of tonight is in trying to find a holy moment, where God’s love speaks to us in an otherwise chaotic life. In fact, you might not find that moment tonight because despite the fact that you were physically able to get here, your mind may still be somewhere else. The good news is that is okay. The deep, lasting peace of this night is not found in a single church service (though I must say, the service certainly helps). The deep, lasting peace we are looking for comes from the reality that we do not find God’s love and peace in spite of the chaos of life. Tonight teaches us that God hallows the chaos of life.

Based on our standards, God should have placed this precious child – the God incarnate – in the wealthiest, most well-guarded palace, where a person of great wealth could have given the baby everything the baby needed. A person of power could have protected the child, brought honor to the child, raised the child up to assume the power of a Messiah. If we had something so precious, we certainly would have worked to find the best of what we have to protect that preciousness. And yet, God takes on flesh in an unmarried, inconsequential woman of little means. God takes on flesh amidst the common people, being born in the lowliest of estates. God takes on flesh and announces the news not to kings and rulers, but to shepherds – those disregarded by society as being of little import. From the very beginning, the extraordinary thing God does is done in the midst of the ordinary – worse yet, among the marginalized and outcast.

God takes the mess of life: our divisions, our stratifications by class, gender, and race, our subjugation of the poor, our inability to refrain from sin, our messes and chaos – and God makes our mess holy. God sanctifies our chaos, reminding us that in the midst of chaos, God is present. In the midst of chaos, God is doing a new thing through us. In the midst of chaos, God is love and makes us agents of love. I cannot promise that the chaos will not try to overtake you when you walk out the church door tonight. But just like you will find small glimpses tonight of the overwhelming love God has for you, you can find God present in the chaos of life too. God is continually breaking through, birthing in you Christ’s light and love, using you to make room in the world for the Christ child, using you to announce good news of great joy for all people. If that doesn’t break though the chaos, I don’t know what will! Amen.

This summer, our church was looking to do two things: we wanted to offer a “light” educational series that adults could enjoy and we wanted to continue our conversation about racial reconciliation. One might think those two goals do not go together. But we were not to be deterred. We settled on the option of watching movies that were about racial reconciliation. Movies are certainly fun, but the topic still wasn’t capturing the “fun” or “light” criteria. Then the idea hit us: sports movies! Sports movies allow us to be entertained, while sneaking in powerful stories of hope, challenge, and encouragement.

The model has worked even better than I suspected. Our first two movies have been 42: The Jackie Robinson Story and The Blind Side. The last two movies are Coach Carter and Invictus. We were able to feature four sports: baseball, football, basketball, and rugby. Each week we have been able to cheer on teams, laugh at comical moments, and pause with discomfort when truth broke through. Our conversations have been rich – each movie bringing up parallels in our own stories – about race, about respecting the dignity of every human being, and about our journey with faith.

I think what has made that work is each movie is based on a true story. We did not make that connection when planning the film list, but it has been a powerful surprise. Unlike a fictional film, which could be dismissed as romantic, overly simple, or unrealistic, these movies show us real people, trying to live faithful lives on and off the field. Their stories have been encouraging us to do likewise – examine how we are living faithful lives on and off the field. Ultimately, I think that is the only way we are going to make our way toward racial reconciliation: sharing our stories and listening to others’ stories. It would be easy to do otherwise; to keep our heads down and ignore what is happening in the world about us. But these stories invite us into another way of being.

The invitation of our Faith and Film series this week is for us to find ways to engage outside of the theater. Maybe you start by telling someone about this awesome movie you just saw. Or if you are feeling more confident, maybe you simply talk to a friend or coworker – either of your race or another – and start with a confession, “I watched this movie and it has made me think about [insert your thoughts here]. What is your experience with that?” Using the movie or your own story allows you to do what Jesus did all the time – engage people where they are through the power of story. I believe reconciliation starts there: one story at a time.

The season of Advent and I have not always been friends. In fact, the first Advent I experienced in the Episcopal Church almost ended my relationship with the Episcopal Church. You see, I grew up in a Christian tradition that treated Advent as the beginning of the Christmas season. Starting on Advent One, we were singing Christmas carols, making our way through all the old favorites. The tradition felt perfect – instead of focusing on a secularized Christmas, the Christmas hymns during Advent reminded us all of the “reason for the season.” Besides, there are so many familiar Christmas hymns, that there would be no way to enjoy them all during the short two weeks of Christmastide. Since our tradition also did not have services on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, you had to squeeze in all the “Joy to the Worlds,” “Oh Holy Nights,” and “Away in the Mangers,” that you could before the holiday was over. In that tradition, Advent felt like a family gathering around a fire, singing songs of familiarity and comfort.

Of course, the Episcopal Church we landed in did nothing of the sort. The songs I heard during that first Advent were dreadful. They were slow and full of melancholy. They sounded as though whomever wrote them was hunkered down, alone, in a room without a fireplace. They had a hollow, haunted feeling to them, and the tunes were difficult to follow. I remember that first Advent feeling like all the joy had been taken out of Christmas, and all that was left was a sad sense of unfamiliarity.

So, if that were my first experience of Advent in the Episcopal Church, why in the world would I agree to having not just Lessons and Carols today – but Advent Lessons and Carols? I not only agreed to, but begged for, Advent Lessons and Carols because this service attempts to capture what the whole season of Advent does in the Episcopal tradition. Advent is not meant to be four weeks of celebrating the birth of the Christ Child. Advent is meant to be four weeks of helping us understand the enormity of what happens on the fateful night of Christ’s birth. And so, like the people of faith always have, we go back and tell the story. We tell our story. We set the scene of Jesus’ birth by using our story to understand the context of the monumental event of the nativity.

First, we go all the way back to the garden of Eden. Then, we remember the words of the prophets who told of a messiah, an anointed one from the house of David – and yet, better than David. We hear words of comfort, words of preparation, and words of promise. We hear of a young, inexperienced woman and the announcement that she gets of a coming child. And we even hear from Jesus himself, who tells us of the call for repentance in the face of fulfilled promise. All of that – from Eden, to failed kings and judges, to wearied exiled people, to scared, young women, to the message of repentance all are needed to remember why that infant in a humble manger is so important. His story is bigger. His story starts long before his own story starts. His story is our story.

I am especially grateful for the rooting that Advent provides this year because I have been feeling pretty rootless lately. With all the noise of world news lately, we can easily become lost. We can get caught up in the heat of politics, pandering, and promises and forget to whom we belong. We can see destruction all around us and wonder whether hope is lost. Into the face of that loss, destruction, and longing, Isaiah says today, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.” At the time of Isaiah’s oracle, the people of God had been in a time of high tensions. “…The northern kingdom of Israel and the Aramaeans of Damascus tried to force Judah and King Ahaz to join their rebellion against Assyria. On Isaiah’s advice, Ahaz refused; but then, instead of joining the rebel alliance, he called Assyria to intervene.”[i] Of course, this led to disaster and eventually the end of the northern kingdom. You can imagine Isaiah’s frustration with a king who does not trust God, and who only half-way follows God’s instructions. And with the massive destruction of the northern kingdom, Isaiah could have been tempted to lose hope. But the text we get today is not a text of damnation or even chastising. Instead, Isaiah is able to hold on to hope. In the midst of what feels like total destruction, Isaiah proclaims, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”

Those of you who read my blog know I am not all that great with plants. Most plants survive only a few weeks, maybe months if I am lucky. The running joke is that I pretty much have a brown thumb instead of a green thumb. The one exception is a little bonsai plant that my husband and I were given as a wedding present. Somehow, miracle of all miracles, I have managed to keep that plant alive for the fifteen years since our wedding. I had taken to calling it our “love plant,” because I surmised that only our love was keeping the plant going. But when we moved to Williamsburg, having the brown thumb that I do, I assumed that the plant would be just fine sitting in my car for a few days. When we finally moved into our house, I realized something was wrong. The heat of the day must have scorched the plant, because every leaf was turning brown. Within a week of moving in, all the leaves had fallen and even those 15-year old branches were looking withered beyond repair. I was pretty sure the plant was dead, but I couldn’t bear to toss our love plant. For some odd reason, I kept watering the plant, hoping something would happen. But even plant-lovers who saw my plant looked at me with pitying eyes when I showed them the plant. Two months later, I looked over at our sad, presumably dead plant, and at the base of that bonsai plant were two little new shoots of growth. I couldn’t believe it! After a period of mourning, new life was emerging. Hope emerged that our withered love plant might just have a little more life left.

Isaiah’s promise is similarly powerful. “Out of something that appears finished, lifeless, left behind, comes the sign of new life – a green sprig.”[ii] As Christians, we certainly understand the green sprig from the stump of Jesse to be Jesus Christ. He is the only one who can redeem and bring new life. He is the one who brings us hope. In a few weeks, we will not just be celebrating the birth of a cute baby. We will be celebrating the shoot from the stump of Jesse – a branch that will bring new life out of destruction, pain, and suffering. In our world of destruction, pain, and suffering, I cannot imagine a better message of hope.

Once I understood the significance of Advent in the greater faith narrative, my years-long loathing of Episcopal Advent began to fade. The more reserved songs of Advent slowly began to feel less like dirges and more like raw, vulnerable songs of hope. Suddenly the soprano voices singing the high notes of “Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree,” the phrase, “Most highly favored lady,” and the comforting alleluias of “Let all Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” became welcome, comforting friends, and not the nemeses I once imagined. Finally, after years of dread, instead, I found Advent in the Episcopal Church to be a gift – a time set apart to gather around with family and tell the old stories – our story, and prepare our hearts for the new shoot from the root of Jesse.

The telling of our story is not just important for understanding who the Christ Child is. The telling of our story is also important for understanding who we are in relation to the Christ Child and the world. When we understand ourselves to be redeemed by the shoot of the stump of Jesse, the way we operate in the world changes. We look at a world of destruction, pain, and suffering through the lens of hope. And when we look through the lens of hope, we are not a defeated people, but a people who see promise, even when others cannot see that same promise. We know what the shoot from the stump of Jesse has done, is doing, and will do. And that means our whole way of being changes. Our story changes. Our song changes. And we change too. Thanks be to God!

I remember when I was on maternity leave I ended up watching a fair amount of daytime television – mostly because that was the extent of intellectual stimulation that my sleep-deprived brain could handle. Not being someone who watches a lot of television, I was fascinated by one phenomenon in general: pharmaceutical commercials. There are tons of them and they are all filled with very convincing actors and stories. The story is always the same: the patient was sad, scared, or in pain, struggling with no cure; they or their doctor find a little-known drug; and, bam, they are returned to health and wholeness. Sometimes the actor or narrator will mention a few possible side effects. But in tiny print below the glowingly happy patient is a longer list of side effects that, quite frankly, sound terrifying – maybe even more terrifying than the disease or symptom they are trying to heal. If you are not careful, you can miss the messy stuff altogether because everyone looks so happy: from hair loss, to abdominal pain, partial paralysis, or in rare cases, even death.

That same sort of list of side effects is what our gospel lesson today glosses over too. The severity of the situation is clearly grim when Jesus commissions the seventy to go ahead of him, proclaiming the kingdom and healing people. Jesus is unambiguous. He tells the seventy that they will be like sheep among wolves. He takes away any forms of security: no purse, no bag, no sandals. He warns them that some people will not receive them well, and they will have to dust off their bruised egos and keep going. He advises them to be gracious guests, eating whatever is put before them (even if it is Brussel sprouts). Truly, this has to be the worst ad for a mission ever.

But here is the funny part. The text jumps over the mission of the seventy and simply says, “The seventy returned with joy.” We do not get details of all the side effects they experience. We do not get to hear how hard eating what is put before them is. We do not get to hear how scary traveling with no money or shoes is. We do not even get to hear how many times they have to dust of their feet in protest from ill treatment. No, the commercial just glosses straight to the end, “The seventy returned with joy.” The reading today feels like all the bad stuff is just shoved into fine print so that we do not get a sense of what going out into the mission field really feels like – because, based on what Jesus says, the mission field sounds terrifying.

Feeling frustrated by the lack of detail this week, I found myself wondering how we might get a glimpse into the real experience of following Jesus and sharing the good news. Then I stumbled back into the Naaman story and realized perhaps he is the key. Naaman seems like an unlikely candidate at first blush. He is a foreign national in the time of Elisha. Jesus does not come onto the scene until hundreds of years later. But Naaman has much more in common with the followers of Jesus – in fact, more in common with us – than we might imagine.

You see, Naaman is a mighty army commander. Because of the Lord’s favor, Naaman has led the king’s troops to victory. Naaman is not one of the Israelites, but he is someone with great power – a prowess we are familiar with as modern Americans. In that way, he, us, and the seventy commissioned by Jesus are similar – we are insiders with power. But despite his power, Naaman suffers from leprosy. He has longed for healing and would use his power, influence, and money if he could. But so far that has not led to success. Instead, Naaman has to go another way. As it turns out, Naaman has to go on a journey that is very similar in conditions to what the seventy must do.

In order to find healing and wholeness, Naaman must give up his power, sense of control, and must rely on others – especially those most marginalized in society.[i] Basically, like the seventy, Naaman must give up his purse, his bag, his sandals, and must rely on the hospitality of others. His story starts with a tip from a slave girl from Israel. She learns of the commander’s leprosy and suggests he seek out the Israeli prophet, Elisha for healing. So, Naaman gets a blessing from his king and heads off to the king of Israel. Only, the king of Israel misunderstands Naaman and thinks he is being setup for failure. Elisha, who is clearly not in the king’s court, saves the day, and sends word that he will help. So, Naaman takes his bountiful gifts to this non-ranking prophet seeking help again. But instead of greeting Naaman, Elisha sends out one of his messengers to Naaman with instructions for healing. Instead of dusting his feet off at the apparent insult, Naaman gets angry. But some of Naaman’s unnamed servants gently appeal to him to try the remedy anyway. Naaman eats humble pie again, and is healed.

Naaman gives us a glimpse into the fine print of Jesus’ commissioning of the seventy. Going without a purse, sandals, and relying on the hospitality of others takes a lot of humility. Facing rejection, which Jesus guarantees will come, will take a lot of anger management. Going in Christ’s name will mean accepting help from anyone and everyone – not the easiest of tasks for us, who as Americans prefer to be self-sufficient, independent, strong survivors. We prefer to be people who help instead of people who need help.

I have been on a variety of mission trips over the years: medical missions, missions building homes, missions building schools or community centers, and missions meant to build relationships. On almost every mission trip I have joined, the team members came back feeling like they gained more than they gave. This conclusion invariably leads to a discussion about whether money is best spent in direct aid than expensive overseas trips that seem to benefit us more than the people we serve. While that conversation always needs to happen, what that argument fails to see is the power of Christian witness – that even if we do not turn communities around socio-economically, part of what we leave behind is the love and fellowship of Christ – the message that you are not alone in your suffering. In part, being able to host us and show us hospitality gives those we serve more of a sense of worth and honor than being recipients of aid.

But in order for any of that to happen, we have to make ourselves vulnerable.[ii] We have to put ourselves in the position of Naaman to receive aid and healing from the least likely persons. True mission is not about the powerful and wealthy bringing their resources to the poor and downtrodden. True mission is about the powerful and wealthy realizing their own spiritual poverty and creating an environment where rich and poor, healthy and sick can share healing, wholeness, and health in a way that recognizes we all have needs before God – and that God uses us all of us when we work collaboratively for healing and building up the kingdom of God.[iii]

Jesus was right to warn us with the possible side effects of sharing the good news: vulnerability, insecurity, bodily danger, hurt egos, and long days. Though the seventy do not show us what that looks like, Naaman certainly does. He reminds us of the fine print: that the side effects may lead to anger, feelings of abandonment, a loss of self-worth and importance. But the benefits are still the same: healing and wholeness for the whole community, redefining who is in and who is out of the community, and new purpose in the larger world. The good news is that part of our prescription involves partners for the journey: Jesus sends the seventy out two-by-two.[iv] Even Naaman does not go alone, but takes others with him – others who keep him in check and support him in his sense of loss. And the result is the same: healing, transformation, and joy. Those kind of results make the side effects worth it! Amen.

Where I grew up, the practice of sharing a “testimony” was commonplace. In fact, many of my friends had no problem asking what my testimony was. Usually what someone meant when they asked, “What’s your testimony?” was they wanted to know the story of when you were “saved.” Now, just because I grew up in the culture did not mean that I felt comfortable with that question. In fact, I can tell you that the question usually led me to lots of stammers and fidgeting. Once I actually asked, “What exactly do you mean when you say ‘saved’?” But the answer made me even more uncomfortable. The basic assumption seemed to be that being “saved” was like having an epiphany moment – a moment of clarity when you heard the voice of God, and you made an active decision to accept Jesus as your “personal Lord and Savior.”

So you can imagine how profoundly grateful I was to stumble into the Episcopal Church as an adult and find that no one ever asked me about my testimony or being saved. In fact, I am not even sure most Episcopalians have that kind of language around their faith. If you asked an Episcopalian when they were saved, they might tell you about a near miss with a car or a time when doctors had to administer CPR. Once I realized most Episcopalians were not going to demand to hear my testimony of how I came to accept Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior, I realized I might have actually found my people.

Of course, I am not sure either tradition really has it right. In fact, I think the two cultures represent two extremes – the culture I grew up in believed being saved and being able to retell the story was crucial to membership; and the culture I chose to stay in believed that asking anyone about their faith life was way too personal of a conversation that should be avoided at all costs – we are just glad you are here. Of course, I lean toward the Episcopal extreme, but I do see some of the dangers of our extreme. You see, in our efforts to be polite and unobtrusive, we forget something very important about testimonies: testimonies help us grow together.

Perhaps I should back up and talk about what testimonies are.[i] Now, my childhood friends would define a testimony as the story of how you were saved. I would actually describe a testimony as the story of how you came to know Jesus – whether you came to know Jesus through all the Sunday School stories you learned, whether you found the church as an adult and slowly felt yourself more and more drawn in by the story of Jesus, or whether you are still figuring out your journey and you are not really sure what you are doing but you know you want to be here. The cool thing about a testimony is that there is no right or wrong testimony. Your testimony is unique to you, and your testimony is not only good, but is compelling.

That is what I love about our gospel lesson today. Today’s story sets the stage for a lot of testimonies. On this day three women go to the tomb to tend to Jesus’ body and instead have an incredible experience. On this day the disciples listen to some crazy story by the women of their group – believing that clearly the women are either seeing things, are suffering from sleep-deprivation, or are just out of their minds with grief. On this day, Peter cannot resist the temptation to check out the scene in the tomb himself – and he is rewarded by being amazed at what he sees.

But those are just the facts of the story as we read them. Those details are not their testimonies. No, I imagine the testimonies are quite different. I imagine Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James’ testimony would go something like this, “You are right. Sometimes people will think you are crazy when you tell your story. I remember back when Jesus first died, we had this amazing encounter at his tomb. We were overwhelmed and overjoyed, but do you think the men would believe us? They eventually came around, but those first few weeks were hard.”

I imagine the disciples’ testimony came from a different angle. Their testimony might have gone something like this, “I totally get what you mean. The story really is crazy. Even I, one of his closest disciples, did not believe the story when Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James told me. In fact, I wondered if their grief had not left them mentally unstable. But slowly my heart warmed.”

And I imagine Peter’s testimony was even more different. “Trust me,” he might have said. “I totally understand what you mean about not feeling worthy. I felt like I behaved even worse that Judas. I did not betray Jesus for money, but I did deny him three times in public. When that cock crowed, my heart shattered. I never thought God would forgive me. But when I stood in that empty tomb, and remembered what Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James told me, a spark of hope lit in my heart. Suddenly I understood that Jesus could redeem me – even me – the worst friend and disciple you could be.”

Testimonies are not stories about how pious we are. Testimonies do not fit into a formula or even make us look particularly good. Testimonies are stories – our stories – of how we have encountered God. They are not meant to be perfect stories. In fact, the more imperfect the story, the better, because testimonies are meant to be shared. I do not know about you, but I find imperfect stories much more compelling than perfect ones. When Mary Magdalene tells me people thought her story was crazy, I feel like I can be more honest about my own story – no matter how crazy my story may sound. When Peter tells me about how unfaithful he was, I feel like I can be more honest about my own unfaithfulness. When the disciples tell me how dismissive they were, I can be more honest about how I am not always a good listener for God.

On this Easter Sunday, the Church shares her testimony. We wake up this morning as if from a bad dream. Lingering in our subconscious are stories of betrayal, unfaithfulness, brutality, and death. The sting of grief and the sobriety created from deep failure still tingles. But on this day, something utterly unexpected, confusing, and amazing happens. Jesus warned us this would happen, but we did not really understand him at the time. But in the empty tomb hope bursts forward. Our hearts are filled with joy at the possibility that Jesus’ death changes things. In the coming weeks, we will hear the rest of the Church’s testimony about how, in fact, Jesus resurrection does change things – stories of eternal life, of the kingdom made present, of sins washed away, of forgiveness and a New Covenant. The story is admittedly a bit crazy. But the story, the Church’s testimony, is full of hope, love, and grace.

St. Margaret’s has its own unique testimony. The St. Margaret’s testimony begins with the stale stench of cigarettes in the Plainview American Legion Hall and journeys through baptisms in a church that was still under construction. The testimony is full of bowling leagues, choirs, progressive dinners, and youth groups. The testimony is full of leaders – both lay and ordained – who shaped the different eras of our life together. No single part of our story is perfect, and no single part of our story is without redemption. And our testimony is still unfolding, year after year, even when some questioned whether we could keep going.

Our individual testimonies are the same. Some of them are circuitous, as we took a winding path to get to know our Lord. Some of them are strange, involving odd encounters and sacred moments. Some of them have yet to be articulated or understood. Whatever our testimony may be, our testimonies are not meant to be kept to ourselves. They are meant to be shared. Just like the Church models for us today as we shout our long awaited alleluias, we too are meant to share our imperfect, strange, quirky testimonies. We share them with one another and out in the world because our stories have had a tremendous impact on our lives. Those stories, in all their glorious imperfection, are also the stories that help us connect with others, to share the Good News, and to grow the body of faith.[ii] My testimony will now include the stories of my time here at St. Margaret’s, as your testimony and the testimony of St. Margaret’s will also include parts of these last four-plus years. The joy of this day, the comfort of the Church’s story, and the satisfaction of the Holy Meal are all meant to empower us to go out in the world and share our imperfect, beautiful testimonies. The world is waiting – and Jesus goes with us. A

One of the things I have always found funny about Christmas is the number of hymns that talk about silence. Our favorite is usually Silent Night. When we sing the song on Christmas Eve, we dim the lights and enjoy a quiet moment of reflection. But that holy night was anything but quiet. Bethlehem is inundated with people coming in for the registration. The fact that there is no room for Joseph and Mary tells us how crowded Bethlehem is. But Mary and Joseph not only have to tend with homecoming revelers, they also have to contend with the animals over whose abode they have taken. Add into the mix a screaming newborn, and the idea of a silent night is almost comical.

But Mary and Joseph get even more noise than that. You see, nearby shepherds hear a cacophony of praise from the heavenly hosts in the middle of the night. Their night has been anything but quiet too. Instead of trying to get the animals and themselves back to sleep, they decide to go into town and see this thing which has come to pass. And so, they spend the night, talking to Mary and Joseph, maybe taking turns trying to soothe baby Jesus. When they leave those rudimentary quarters, they leave town praising and glorifying God. Yes, this is no silent night for the shepherds either.

I think that is why I enjoy our Christmas Day celebration. Silence is in short supply on Christmas Eve. We sing carols, we hear the giddy laughter of children awaiting gifts, stockings, and cookies, and we chant the mass, singing our traditionally spoken words. For those of us with small children, even the wee hours of the morning of Christmas Day are loud – filled with cries of elation, joy, and battery-operated toys. But on Christmas Day, after a noisy night and morning, we make our way to church and find, perhaps for the first time, the silence for which we have been looking. We do not sing carols. We do not have to speak over the hubbub of full pews. Instead we gather in relative quiet, and tell the old story again – but this time with a softness that cannot be found on Christmas Eve.

What I love about finding true silence on Christmas Day is that our morning is structured a lot like I imagine that first holy morning being structured. Christmas Eve was full of noise – of animals, shepherds, angels, and crying babies. But that next morning, the dust has settled. Gone are the shepherds and angels. The animals have calmed down after too many midnight guests. I even imagine baby Jesus has given in to sleep, since most newborns get their nights and days reversed for the first few weeks. Into this relative quiet is when I imagine Mary treasuring all those words and pondering them in her heart. The night before was just too loud. The exhausted, travel-weary, physically and emotionally spent Mary gets a moment in the morning to begin to process what God has done in and through her. After the break of dawn, as the sun rises and the loud revelers and news deliverers have gone, she can have a quiet moment as she rocks or feeds baby Jesus and ponder in her heart this child at her breast.

I do not think that night was silent. But I understand why our hymnodists would want to talk about silence. I think that is why I prefer the hymn, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence.” Instead of depicting a silent night, that hymn invites us to keep silence as a form of reverence. The first verse says, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand; ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand.” I like the hymn because that is the kind of pondering I imagine Mary does in her heart this morning. Unlike most new mothers, I do not think she is worried about the impact of birth on her body or even about her humble surroundings. I imagine her thoughts that morning are consumed with nothing earthly minded. Instead, I imagine her heart is pondering the blessing of Christ our God descending on earth through her – and the enormity of the event drives her to pay silent homage as she gazes on Jesus’ precious face.

That is what the church invites us to do today as well. We structure a morning for worship. The dust of gift wrap, egg nog, and stocking stuffers has settled. The noise of carols, singing choirs and priests, and antsy children in pews has faded. The anxiety of preparing for the big event of this day has eased. And all that is left is a moment to let our mortal flesh keep silent before the Christ Child. This morning we take a moment to ponder nothing earthly minded, and instead join Mary as she ponders all that has happened in her heart. We come to church on this holy morning to ponder the miracle of the Christ Child. We honor the way in which God is ever trying to honor the covenant God has made with us – willing to go to the extreme of taking on human form to care for and preserve us. Our God’s love knows no bounds. Humbled by that knowledge, we come to pay God homage.

The question for us in our pondering is what we will do with that love. Though we make space this morning for silence, we do not remain here all day. Like any other Sunday, the priest will dismiss us to go in peace, and serve the Lord. Anytime we feast at Christ’s table, that is our charge: to take whatever sustenance we have gained and to go out into the world to do the work that Christ has given us to do. Certainly that may involve cooking, travel, or more gift giving. But the news we ponder in our hearts today is much bigger than today. Today we are commissioned to consider the impact of the birth of the Christ Child on our lives. What will our response be to the God who is so faithful to God’s covenant with us that God would take on human flesh to redeem us? We may need still need to ponder in our hearts what that response will be. I cannot imagine a better day than today to keep pondering what new work God is crafting in our hearts. Amen.